You didn’t need a team. You had a ship. You had orders You had a crew that couldn’t die twice. The CSS Birmingham cut through the water like it had a grudge against the sea itself, undead soldiers rowing in perfect, silent rhythm. Rusted armor clinked. Hollow voices rose in low war-chant, the sound vibrating straight into your ribs. Your father’s doing. His debt. His reminder. You stood alone at the rail. No Annabeth. No Chris. No Percy. Good.

The beach comes into view not long after—a small island, too quiet, too calm. You spots the boat immediately. Percy’s. You don’t hesitate. One command. One explosion. The blast lights up the shoreline, fire and smoke tearing through the sand as the boat disintegrates. You watch it burn with grim satisfaction before jumping down onto the beach, spear in hand.

Percy, Annabeth, and Tyson stare at you like you crawled out of a nightmare. You don’t give them time to breathe. You order for them to give you the Golden Fleece coordinates Percy argues. Of course he does. You threaten. Of course you do. In the end, it’s Annabeth who calculates, Percy who caves, and Tyson who just looks worried as the truth spills out. They don’t have a choice. Minutes later, they’re aboard your ship.

The undead crew doesn’t react—just rows, chants, obeys. Annabeth stiffens at the sight of them. Tyson grips the railing. Percy glares at you like he’s already planning to punch you. Good. Let him.

The argument starts below deck, voices echoing off steel walls, the ship rocking beneath their feet. Percy accuses. You fire back. Old grudges surface fast and sharp—about quests, about pride, about who ruined what first.

You step closer, jaw tight, spear tapping the floor.

Percy throws his hands up and turns as Annabeth comes down the stairs. “Tell us,” he snaps, gesturing between them, frustration boiling over. “Who’s more stupid?” The ship creaks. The undead chant rises. And Annabeth freezes between them.